The 2PM Cakery #3

The six months of self-isolation began quite simply. It started almost right after her mother’s death—well, technically not immediately, since she had to deal with the funeral and the police investigations. But once all of that was over, she no longer had much reason to go out.

The first day, she slept on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t intentional. She had meant to make tea. She had meant to eat something. But the mug never made it off the counter, and somewhere between her body folding in on itself and the silence swallowing her whole, she just... stopped moving. Morning bled into afternoon. Then evening. She didn’t answer her phone. She didn’t turn on the lights. And when a knock finally came—gentle, uncertain, like someone testing the weight of her grief—she stayed completely still, pretending to be someone who no longer lived there.

The second day, someone left a bag of groceries on her doorstep. No note. Just bread, peanut butter, and the kind of boxed soup she used to eat in college when she couldn’t afford anything else. She didn’t know who sent it. But on the third day, it happened again. This time with apples. Crackers. Toilet paper. After that, she stopped asking questions.

Honestly, she never meant to stay inside. It just became easier. There were no bloodstains here, no yellow tape, no faint scent of iron clinging to the walls. This house—the one she’d moved into just a few months before her life detonated—felt like the only thing untouched. Which made it the only place she could still breathe.

You might ask why her mother's death left such a mark.

There was no correct answer, really. She hadn’t been home when it happened—a detail that seemed to matter to people for some reason. The police. The lawyers. The nosy neighbors who suddenly started treating her like a cautionary tale. As if not being there somehow made it better. As if arriving twenty minutes after the screaming stopped was a blessing. 

They didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t walk into the hallway of her parents’ house and find her mother’s phone on the floor next to a smear of something dark and wet. They didn’t follow it into the kitchen.

Her mother was already gone. The paramedics told her later that the wound was fatal. Immediate. She hadn’t suffered. But she must’ve. In some way. Because there was shattered glass in the sink, and blood on the refrigerator door, and the look on her father’s face when he turned to see her standing there—that had to mean something. 

There was no rage left in him by then. No panic. Just... resignation. Like he already knew where this ended.

He said her name once. Just once. Quietly. Then he sat down on the floor and waited for the police to arrive.

She hadn’t said a word to him since.

Some days, she wondered if it would’ve been easier if he’d run, or screamed, or denied it, or begged her to believe it wasn’t him. But he hadn’t done any of that. He’d just looked at her like the damage had already been done—and then sat in his own wreckage like a man who’d finally stopped pretending to hold himself together.

All in all, she hadn’t stepped outside since all those havoc. Not because she couldn’t. More because she didn’t know how to be a person after that.

*to be continued*

The 2 PM Cakery #2

She didn’t move. Not at first. This was the kind of knock that echoed like it didn’t belong to a friend—or a stranger with good intentions. It clung to the atmosphere long after it stopped, like it knew it had unsettled her. Like it wanted to be heard again, inside her head, louder than her thoughts. Three knocks. No doorbell. No follow-up. Just... awkward waiting.

She edged toward the door on instinct. Through the peephole, nothing. Just the porch she hadn’t stepped out on in six months and the crooked doormat that used to say “Welcome” before the letters faded. 

She opened the door—just a crack—something was there. A box. Small, white, with a string tied tight like an old-school bakery ribbon. No note this time. No signature. But the smell hit her instantly: cinnamon, nutmeg, and a hint of orange zest. She hadn’t smelled that combination since—

Her throat closed. Since her. Since before the night everything had gone still.

***

She brought the box inside like it was radioactive, setting it gently beside the paper bag. Her fingers hovered over the string, hesitant, or perhaps scared. That pulling it might unravel more than just a knot. 

Her mother used to tie cake boxes with the same kind of string. Not because she had to—her packaging was clean and modern—but because she said it made people feel like they were taking something home from childhood. Nostalgia, she used to call it. That word hurt now.

After a few seconds, she untied the string anyway. She was never good with refraining curiosity.

Inside were two slices of spice cake. Not store-bought. Not from any bakery she knew. The frosting was uneven, like someone had used the back of a spoon, and the cake was a little lopsided. But the smell—it was familiar. 

She reached out before she could stop herself. Warm. Fresh. Someone must had intentionally baked it that morning. Someone must had knew the cake would intrigued her.

She looked around her silent kitchen, heart thudding.

No explanation. Just the cake. 

And a little question in her mind that refused to leave: Who still remembered her mother’s recipe?

***

She didn’t eat the cake. Not yet. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with her hands in her lap, watching the slices like they might tell her a secret. 

She hadn’t let herself think about her mom in weeks—months, maybe—but now every corner of the room seemed to push her boundaries. 

The clock ticked past 2:37. She closed her eyes, not wanting to feel the horror lurking from the back of her mind.

And then her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

One message.

Just a single line.

“You still remember how to make it, right?”

*to be continued*

Inheritance

I don't understand how a mom whose mom

just watched her go through painful wifehood

and bruised, thankless motherhood

would do the same to her daughter.

How does sorrow not become warning?

How does the hurt not sharpen into refusal?

How does she sit still,

while her child drowns in the same silence

she once choked on?

They say pain teaches.

But some just learn how to pass it down—

with folded towels, tight smiles,

and casseroles that taste like surrender.

She hands over the burden like it's heirloom.

As if love means letting it happen again,

but quieter this time.

I set the table, like she taught me.

Bite back the scream, like she showed me.

And every time I bleed from biting,

I wonder if she ever sees

how familiar I must look.

Like looking in a mirror,

but choosing to blink.

The 2 PM Cakery #1

There was a ritual to it. Every day at exactly two in the afternoon, the girl behind the lace curtain would unlock the front door, reach one arm out—always just one—without showing her face and pull in the brown paper bag that someone had left on the porch. Sometimes it was soup in a thermos. Sometimes a sandwich with too many pickles. Once, it was a single cupcake with lavender frosting and too much vanilla essence. She never asked who sent them, and they never rang the bell. That was the arrangement.

The neighbors called her that sweet girl from the end of the street, though none of them had seen her face in months. Not since That Night. 

That girl—the one people whispered about when they thought she couldn't hear—sometimes she wondered if they thought she'd disappeared entirely. If the girl in the house with the shut blinds and dying mailbox was just a ghost now. She surely felt like one.

Today, she stared blankly at the paper bag as usual. Still warm. There was something wrapped in foil inside and something else beneath it—a folded note. That was new. She hadn’t gotten a note since the last time she opened her mouth to speak and found that the words stuck like dried honey on the roof of her mouth.

Her fingers hovered over the note like it might bite. It was written on lined paper, the kind that came from spiral-bound notebooks, and folded once, then again. She opened it slowly, the edges soft with smudged graphite and the faint scent of cinnamon. Just five words, scrawled in a handwriting she didn’t recognize:

You still love baking, right?

She didn’t answer. Not out loud. But her gaze flicked toward the kitchen—toward the flour-caked countertops and the half-used bag of chocolate chips that hadn't moved in weeks. Baking used to be the only thing that made the silence in her chest feel less suffocating. That was before. Now, the mixing bowls sat like fossils, frozen in time. 

She closed her eyes and let the question from the note hang in the air like it deserved no answer.

Outside, the world was moving—cars passing, children yelling from two houses down, someone mowing the lawn too early in the season. Inside her house, it was all stillness. She wondered, not for the first time, if maybe the world had split in two That Night. The normal one kept spinning, and she’d been left behind in the other.

She folded the note back up and placed it carefully on the counter, like it was something contagious. The bag of food sat untouched beside it. For a moment, she just stood there, barefoot on cold tile, the clock ticking loudly above the sink. Two o’clock. The time she used to pull fresh scones from the oven and hum along to old playlists, back when people came over without knocking. Back when her life didn’t feel like something she was borrowing, day by day.

Then came the knock.

Not the gentle kind, not the neighborly kind.

Three sharp raps. Precise. Like someone who knew exactly where she lived—and why she hadn’t left.

*to be continued*

I plan to make this a serialized story if this gets a lot of readers. Let me know if it's an interesting potential-series!

Let Me Escape to The Godly Realm For One Second

If I were God, I’d never create people like you or me.
Too fragile for the storms, too proud to ask for shelter.
We bruise each other by accident and call it fate.
We mistake silence for peace, distance for dignity.

If I were God, I’d skip the part
where we learn to love through loss,
where we taste sweetness only after we’ve
swallowed salt.

I’d never design walking contradictions,
I wouldn’t give us mouths that lie kindly,
or eyes that see the best in those
who leave.

Saying “I’m fine” while quietly drowning.

We apologize for crying,
laugh when we’re anxious,
hug people who don’t know
how much they’ve broken us.
Isn’t it funny? The way we keep going?

If I were God, I’d make simpler beings—
not ones who write poems about pain.

But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe there’s a strange kind of grace
in being this messy.
Maybe there's beauty in the breaking.

Maybe if I were God,
I'd still make people like you and me—
just not so good at pretending.

original poetry by:

-Qintha Djais-

Some Last Words

Cassian Vale didn’t cry at the funeral. Not when the priest said her name. Not when they lowered the casket. Not even when the wind carried the scent of her favorite flowers—white hyacinths, sharp and too sweet for July.

But now, three weeks later, standing in her tiny attic with a box of half-finished manuscripts in one hand and a faded Polaroid in the other, he could feel it—something shifting, cracking open. 

The attic was warm. Dusty. Uncomfortable.

She’d only been gone for twenty-two days, and already the house felt like a museum: curated, preserved, and completely abandoned. He was the only one who cared enough to pack up her things. His uncles had barely shown up for the service. His cousins treated grief like an old suit. And his father? His father had been a ghost long before his mother ever became one.

He crouched by an old trunk, running his fingers over the cracked leather lid. That was when the memory hit him.

Easter.

The last time he’d seen her alive. The last time they’d been just the two of them. No noise. No sharp words from sharp-tongued relatives. Just them and a pot of tea.

She had looked at him over the rim of her mug and said, with that sly smile of hers, “Why haven’t you settled down yet, Cass?”

He’d shrugged. Said something lazy. “Still enjoying my freedom.”

But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was uglier. Deeper. The kind of truth that lived in the closet full of skeletons.

He was afraid.

Afraid of being like him.

Before marriage, his mother had been a rising star. Quantum physicist. Published author. A mind that bent reality and made it beg for answers. And beautiful—so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her in those old photos. Hair like sunlight. Eyes that laughed before her mouth caught up.

And then she married his father.

The sparkle dimmed. The laughter cracked. She stopped wearing mascara because she cried too often. Her shirts were always wrinkled. Her voice quieter. Her back a little more hunched each year.

Love, it turned out, could be a cage.

And he was terrified he’d become the jailer.

Cassian sat on the floor now, cross-legged like a boy again, the Polaroid in his hand. It was one of the rare ones—a picture of his parents together. Younger. Smiling. Back when she still glowed.

He turned it over.

There was writing on the back. Slanted. Faint.

It was hers.

 

Cassian,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I knew the end was coming—I just didn’t want to dim your world with my shadow while I was still here.

I saw it in your eyes that day at Easter. That fear. That belief that you’re cursed to repeat your father’s sins.

You’re not.

Do you know how I know?

Because I raised you. I taught you how to be kind and how to be strong. I taught you how to walk away when the room turns toxic and how to listen when someone’s voice shakes.

I didn’t raise a monster, Cassian. I didn’t raise a mistake.

I raised a man. A good one.

You will not dim her light. You will love her. And that will be enough.

 

—Mom

 

The grief didn’t come all at once. They didn’t flood. Didn’t crash.

They came like her voice. Soft. Steady. Certain.

Cassian Vale sat in the attic, surrounded by the remnants of the woman who had given him life—and, with one letter, had just handed it back to him.

The Highs are Not For Show

 If you know me in real life—or if you’ve been around my blog or social media—you might notice I rarely talk about the highs in my life. The joyful moments, the wins, or the things I’m grateful for don’t always make it into what I share publicly.

Sometimes I wonder if that gives off the wrong impression. Maybe it makes it seem like I’m always struggling, or not content with my life. But alhamdulillah, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I know how blessed and privileged I am, and I carry a lot of gratitude in my heart.

The reason I don't post much about the good things isn't because they’re not there—it’s because I believe in Ain. It might sound strange to those who don’t believe in it, but for me, it's something real. That’s why I tend to keep the good moments (or things I cherish most) private. They feel safer that way, protected from unwanted energy or attention that might unintentionally cause harm.

I wasn't always this private. In fact, if you catch me in person, I might overshare without meaning to—lol. But when it comes to social media or the community around me, I’ve grown more reserved. It’s not about hiding anything, really. I just don’t feel the need to invite people into every part of my life or to seek validation online.

I’m also quite fond of modesty. I appreciate when people perceive me as someone grounded, because I think there’s something really cool about not needing to announce everything. Truly confident people, I believe, let their lives speak for themselves.

So if you’ve ever read my posts and wondered what my life is really like, just talk to me. I’m always up for a good conversation.